


It's Only Natural

by starclipped



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1992, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Arguing, Background billverly, Confessions, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie's pov, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Insecurities, Internalized Homophobia (Mild), Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rated T for Trashmouth, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slurs, Teenage Losers Club (IT), but know Benverly is always the endgame in my mind, cheesy and silly, he's also a little dramatic, its pining eddie hours folks, reddie being soft and cute but also annoying assholes, richie is an insecure boy, sort of more hammock shenanigans because i'm still not over it, vague mentions of art class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: "Look," he says abruptly, noticing in his peripheral how quickly Richie turns to stare down at him. He doesn't blink his magnified eyes, keeps them wide open, afraid to miss one second. "I'm not asking Greta, so fuck off. And actually, Rich, if you're really my friend then you'll sit for me so I don't flunk and lose credits. I'm not taking this shitty class again—""Huh-Hey!""—and you owe me anyway, so it works out.""Ummm, exsqueeze me?”[Or: Eddie loves Richie Tozier as much as he hates his 11th grade art class, and that's the big fucking problem.]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 36
Kudos: 274





	It's Only Natural

**Author's Note:**

> _"you don't have to say, i know you're afraid. it's only natural that i should want to be there with you. it's only natural that you should feel the same way too. it's circumstantial, it's something i was born to. it's only natural, can i help it if i want to? can i help it if i want to?"_  
>  —it's only natural; crowded house  
> (fic title taken from this song)

** **March 1992** **

* * *

****[Tuesday]** **

Eddie hates art. 

Not as a consumer, per se; he loves cheesy action flicks and even cheesier horror, enjoys the occasional video game at the arcade when Richie ropes him into playing, cherishes his small collection of _Shazam_ and _Thundercats_ comics. He likes music, too—thanks to Richie, who rarely goes anywhere without his boombox tucked away in his backpack—and dancing, but art in a traditional sense? All the—the _sketching_ and the _painting?_ The watercolors and pastels? No thanks! It's messy, first of all, staining his fingertips with colors that takes a lot of extra scrubbing to wash off before they ruin his clothing, and it's time consuming on an _infuriating_ level. Eddie truly doesn't know how Bill can sit at a table for hours on end, still and silent, filling page after page with doodles and short stories, and _not_ get restless or bored.

So, Eddie hates art as a creator, pure and simple, probably because he isn't any good. It’s not as if he doesn’t have the imagination for it (he _does_ , okay?), but the level of skill and motivation required to create something _not_ crappy are things Eddie is sadly bereft of. He prefers statistics. Percentages. Formulas he can memorize and conclusions he can uncover. He isn't a math whizz by any means (although his unwavering C in Calculus has slowly been rising to a B, thanks to Richie and Stan's weekly study sessions), but the left side or his brain is far more active than his right, not to mention the utter joy he receives from looking at an answer and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that it's correct.

Art isn't like that. It's subjective and confusing, with so many hidden motivations and meanings, so many answers that are supposedly not _wrong_ but also not entirely _right_ , and Eddie's stress levels can't take such uncertainty—not right now, at the tender age of sixteen. It's half the reason the second semester of his junior year has been such an anxiety inducing shitshow. The other reason is... far more complicated.

But art? Yeah, Eddie hates it. The practice, the history, the materials. Okay, that's not entirely fair. Some of what he's learned so far has actually been interesting and sharing the class with Bill is particularly nice, since they haven't had much time to hang out after high school completely took over their lives. Bill's been busy with Beverly and Georgie and speech therapy, plus all his various artistic hobbies, and Eddie's been busy with... well, Richie and the other Losers, he supposes. _And_ pushing his body past the excessive limits he previously assumed his body _had_. But mostly Richie.

Eddie runs a hand over his face, the skin slightly warm beneath his palms, as he comes to accept the fact that he just might fail fucking _Art_ , all because their latest assignment—worth 30% or their grade!—is to draw a portrait. As if that's freaking _easy._ As if that's something any student having gone through one and a half quarters of lessons can just _do_. Eddie had been one ( _not_ ) asthma attack away from starting an argument with their teacher before Bill sensed his agitation and tried to calm him down with a gentle hand on his back. It worked well enough, Bill's quiet countenance is always soothing, but Eddie would've been more at ease if Richie were around to elbow him in the side and make a joke about how often he brushes up on his strokes, _if ya know what I mean._ He can hear Richie's voice so clearly in his head, whiny and hushed, soda pop breath tickling his ear, that he almost laughs out loud just from imagining it. But then he feels like an idiot, a pathetic one as sick as his mom still tries to make him believe, and he sinks down in his chair to sulk for the rest of class.

"I'm going to ask B-B-Beverly to pose for me," Bill says after the bell rings, the two of them navigating through the busy halls to put their stuff in their lockers on the way to lunch.

"Yeah, no shit," Eddie replies, shaking his head at the rueful smile Bill sends him before they stop at different sections of the hall. Ben, who is nowhere in sight, must have already come and gone. He’s probably already sitting with Bev, Stan, and Richie at their usual table. Their lockers are a whole hallway over, so they decided the previous year just to meet up at the cafeteria rather than play Marco Polo after class.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bill asks after he returns, just as Eddie clicks the lock closed, his backpack safely tucked away inside, lunchbox dangling in his fist.

"It _means_ you and Bev are basically dating, so yeah, I could've guessed. You draw her like ten times a day."

"It's good practice!"

"Uh huh."

"Well—" Bill steps around a group lingering near the staircase while Eddie pushes through, making a face when they whisper about him being _rude_. Ha, that’s one of the _nicest_ things people have to say about him, these days. "Who're y-you going to ask?"

"Umm, I dunno.” Eddie pretends to squint down at his watch while their legs carry them swiftly onward. He wants to ask Richie but that would be weird, wouldn't it? Or maybe not. They're close friends, after all. And he technically owes Eddie a favor, since he forged Maggie Tozier's signature on a detention slip Richie had gotten a month prior. Eddie is good at signatures. It's the only way he gets to go on field trips. "I'm gonna fail anyway. I shouldn't even bother."

"Oh, come on, Eds. You're not that bad. You'd actually be really good if you p-p-practiced."

"Yeah, well, I don’t have time," he claims with a huff, following Bill into the bustling cafeteria and sneering at a pile of goopy mashed potatoes splattered against the floor. "I really wanna try out for track next year, so I have to practice a lot and that takes up most of my free time."

"Weren't you at Richie's yesterday?"

Eddie chews on his lip under Bill's scrutinizing gaze.

"It was Monday! No one wants to do shit on Mondays, Bill. Especially not fucking _exercise._ Look, focus! Who am I supposed do this stupid portrait of?"

Eddie's stomach churns with shame as he dares to hope that Bill will suggest Richie, just so it won't be strange if he decides to ask him. Whatever Bill says _goes_ , usually, and they're on the topic. Richie has been brought up. It seems like a no-brainer.

"You could ask Greta."

Or not.

"What?” Eddie snaps, twisting his head around to stare in surprise. "Greta Keene?"

"Know any other Gretas?"

"She hates me. Like, that's something you're aware of, right? Why would she agree to help?"

"'Cause Greta Slurpetta has a thing for our little Spaghetti Man!" Richie cuts in loudly, earning snickers and glares from surrounding tables. He doesn't care, ignoring everyone completely in favor of grabbing Eddie by the wrist when he steps close enough to yank down onto the spot between him and Stan.

"You're crazy," he tells Richie, the little monster that lives in his chest practically purring at the way Richie's arm and thigh press tightly against his own. He catches a whiff of too-sweet bubblegum lingering under the usual overwhelming scent of spicy deodorant, a sign that Richie is still trying to quit the smoking habit he'd developed from Bev, all because Eddie had gone on a long-winded rant four months ago about all the cancers it could cause. "Certifiably insane! She doesn't have a _thing_ for me, you guys are just dumb. I mean, she told me I have gross breath and a tumor on my dick!"

"Maybe she's trying to play doctor. 'Oh, _Eddie_ , let me swab inside your mouth with my tongue! Eddie, drop your pants, it's time for a physical!'"

" _Richie!_ " Eddie screeches, cheeks catching fire. He slams his lunchbox on top of Richie's curly head, only hard enough to sting a little, making him snort a terribly unattractive laugh. Eddie’s heart skips a few beats in response.

"I should know,” Richie tells him, slapping at Eddie’s arms when they reach out for a shove. “Your mom does the same thing to me every night!"

"Shut up! You're fucking _disgusting!”_

"Beep beep, Richie," Bev says mildly.

"Hey, you're the one who told me you caught Greta writing about our dear Edward in the girls bathroom."

"What? What'd she say?"

"Why? You interested?" Richie teases, wiggling his brows. It might be wishful thinking, but his eyes look unusually dull behind the glare of his glasses. Eddie scoffs.

"Are you joking? _Fuck_ no! She's been a total bitch to us since... since _forever!_ I hate her!"

Bev snorts, smiling toothily in agreement. They all get it bad from Greta most days, but Bev has always had it the worst. That’s why Eddie never feels guilty when she swipes candy and gum (and bandages, for their ever-scraped elbows and knees) from Keene’s Pharmacy. Honestly, they deserve worse than a measly drop in profit.

"She was writing something about you having big puppy dog eyes. That's all."

"I'd call them Bambi eyes, myself," Richie says, smirking slyly as he digs into the food on his tray, smearing cheese all over his mouth when he takes a large bite of pizza. Eddie wrinkles his nose even as his tummy turns to knots. "So big, so brown! So _cute, cute, cute!_ "

"Stop it!" Eddie hisses, knocking Richie's greasy hands away from his cheeks. "Asshole."

He hates when Richie teases him like that, mostly because there's a small ( _large_ ) piece of himself that always gets its hopes up whenever Richie says those things, leaning in close and acting like Eddie is the only interesting thing in the world. It's gotten worse over the years, Eddie's awful reactions to Richie's even awfuller teasing, and that's precisely the other _reason_ this semester has been such hell on his nerves. Art with Mrs. Douglas and Richard Wentworth Tozier. Eddie would claim it's because he can't stand either of those things, but, _well._ He knows himself now better than he ever has and that simply wouldn't be the truth. In fact, Eddie _loves_ Richie Tozier as much as he _hates_ his 11th grade art class, and that's the big fucking _problem._

When Richie calls Eddie cute... he really wishes it wasn’t just another joke.

But Richie is Richie, meaning he pokes and teases and prods, giving good and hooting when Eddie gives it back even better. He lets Eddie push and yell, lets him steal his lollipops and comics, kicks his ass at _Street Fighter_ but takes the time to show him new moves if Eddie ever asks. He stays put when Eddie climbs all over him in the hammock, pretending he doesn't care but smiling when everyone goes quiet and it's just the two of them making funny faces at each other, their limbs tangled and their bodies settled. That's all Eddie needs, he tells himself constantly, because that's all he'll get. Richie is his best friend. Richie is a BOY. Richie is—

Eddie hunches over his food, tearing into his turkey sandwich and focusing on swallowing so he doesn’t have to follow that line of thought any longer.

"Why were you two talking about Greta?" Stan asks then, a hint of distaste in his own voice. But Stan dislikes nearly everyone outside of the Losers, so that’s not saying much.

"We have to draw a portrait for Mrs. D-D-Douglas and Eddie doesn't know who his model should be. I was hoping you'd be mine, Beverly."

Eddie feels a little bad for Ben when Bev smiles and nods, easy as anything. Everyone knows he's had it bad for her since 8th grade—everyone except Bill and Beverly herself, it seems. Richie let it slip to Eddie one day that the anonymous poem she received on Valentine's Day freshman year was actually from Ben, and then Eddie had been sworn to secrecy by a very panicked Richie once he realized what he’d said. Richie was good at keeping things like that quiet despite his big trashy mouth, always feeling bad whenever he accidentally betrayed that high level of trust. Eddie wishes he could tell Richie his own secret, but that would totally defeat the purpose of having it in the first place. He's not ready to face the consequences.

It isn't as if he thinks Richie would turn into Bowers, if he ever caught wind. Richie gets called a faggot more often than Eddie does, and even if it’s not accurate he at least understands how much it hurts to be ostracized. That’s the whole point of their little club of losers, after all. There’s something _different_ about each of them. Richie wouldn’t ever try to kick Eddie out (Bill, Stan, Bev, Ben, and Mike are as much Eddie’s friends as they are Richie’s), but that doesn’t mean he’d want to be alone with him any longer. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t scramble out of the hammock if he knew _why_ Eddie wanted to share, _why_ he always pushed back so much. It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or think Eddie was _gross._

"And you're saying he should ask Greta?" Ben wonders, as dubious as his perpetually polite nature allows.

Stan nods, taking a sip of water to help wash down a chunk of bread from his own homemade lunch.

"You've had some bad ideas, Bill, but that one seems exceptionally dumb."

"What? G-g-girls are easier to draw! And I figured it'd stroke her ego, if Eddie asked."

"Touche," Richie says, "but have you considered she'd rather have something _else_ stroked instead?"

He nudges Eddie's side three times, choking on a braying laugh as the others groan around him. Eddie can't help but grin a little bit, though. Richie's joke is quite similar to the one he already imagined him making. Eddie knows his Trashmouth far too well.

"Have you considered that I lose brain cells every time you speak?" Stan counters, almost as amused as he is annoyed.

"That's my plan, Stan. Gotta bring you down to our level, or else you might get too smart and leave us high and dry. Run off to summer camp one year and never come back!"

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Stan counters with a genuine curl of his lips, high-fiving Richie when he holds his hand up. A truly rare occurrence.

Eddie isn't jealous, okay? He's _not!_ He loves his friends just as much as Richie does, it's just... something inside him tends to get a little antsy whenever Richie looks away for too long, his squirrely focus always so easily strayed. Eddie loves being the center of Richie's attention, even if he's being laughed at or made fun of, because he knows he's the only thing, the only _person_ , on Richie's colorful mind in that very moment, and it's intoxicating. Eddie hates himself a little bit for it, but what can he do?

"Look," he says abruptly, noticing in his peripheral how quickly Richie turns to stare down at him. He doesn't blink his magnified eyes, keeps them wide open, afraid to miss one second. "I'm not asking Greta, so fuck off. And actually, Rich, if you're really my friend then you'll sit for me so I don't flunk and lose credits. I'm not taking this shitty class again—"

"Huh-Hey!"

"—and you owe me anyway, so it works out."

"Ummm, exsqueeze me?” Richie drawls, blinking slow and dumb. “Owe you for what?”

“Forging your mom’s signature on that detention slip? Doing your Economics homework when you went home after you busted your lip in Gym? Saving you from fucking _cancer?_ ”

“Okay, it’s not like you found a fucking cure, dude. Chill.”

“Preventative measures are just as important! And anyway, if you don’t help me then I actually _will_ have to ask Greta and then I’ll be miserable, which means _you’ll_ be miserable—”

“Happy wife means happy life,” Beverly teases. Eddie squawks, the back of his neck warming. “I think you should do it, Rich.”

“I guess Mrs. K _would_ be happy I’m helping my future step-son…”

“Oh my god! Could you _not_ for like two freaking seconds?”

“I think Eddie needs to look at the bigger picture here,” Stan says suddenly, wiping crumbs from his lap with a dry sniffle. “You and Richie are both incapable of being still and shutting up, two necessary requirements for an artist and a muse.”

“What’s your point?” Richie asks, taking another bite of pizza. He breaks his giant chocolate chip cookie in two and gives half to Eddie, who doesn’t even complain about the fact that he licked grease off his fingers beforehand.

“I don’t have a point,” Stan replies. He sounds normal, but the gaze he locks on Richie is oddly piercing. “I just thought I’d warn Eddie against setting himself up for immediate failure.”

“If you ask me,” Bev begins, knowing full well that no one _did_ ask, “not getting much done with Richie is better than selling your soul by asking Greta for anything. You’d owe her big time.”

Eddie shudders, vaguely wondering what she’d ask him to do in return. Nothing good, he imagines. Nothing he would like.

“I’m not even the one who brought her up!” Eddie shouts, shooting Bill a the stink-eye. And Richie still hasn’t agreed to the request, so Eddie turns away in a petty huff. It's time to cut his losses. “You guys are no fucking help. I’ll just—I’ll ask Mike. Yeah. Problem solved. Can we talk about something else now?”

“Whoa, hold on!” Richie exclaims, setting a clumsy hand on Eddie's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. (His grimy mitts are big now that he’s getting older and taller, the size making it possible to wrap his fingers all the way around Eddie's calf when they’re lounging in the hammock.) “You said it yourself, I owe you one—”

“You owe me _several_ —”

“And this is, like, the _least_ embarrassing thing you could ask me to do. So yeah, I’ll be your Mona Lisa for a day. No problemo.”

Narrowing his eyes, a giddy feeling swirling reluctantly in his gut, Eddie says: “Alright, fine. Is tomorrow okay?”

“Oh, I dunno. Lemme check my schedule. I’m a very busy man, you see,” Richie jokes, pulling a tattered sheet of paper from his pocket and making a show of squinting at the words scribbled over it. “Hmm… looks like I’ve got a date with your mom at six, so I’m not—”

“Gimme that,” Eddie snaps, snatching what he knows to be a game of hangman that Richie and Bev always play during their shared period before lunch. “And bring some actually good music this time.”

“Only if you bring some _actually_ good snacks,” he chirps back, grinning when Eddie realizes one of the words that had been played was _gazebos_. Eddie found out a couple years back that all the pills he’d been taking, even his trusty inhaler, were fake, and that his mother had managed to trick him, his doctors, and Mr. Keene into thinking he needed prescriptions to be _normal_. Eddie, in a fit of rage, had biked to Richie’s house and yelled about his stupid fucking _placebos_. Only, as naive and rattled as he was at the time, he’d called them _gazebos_ instead, which Richie never fails to rag on him for. He’ll fuck with anyone about anything until the day they die and Eddie hates it. He kind of loves it, too. “Where’re we doing this thing? Your place?”

“Definitely not! My mom banned you from coming over, remember?”

He pointedly does not mention _why._ It was nothing, really. Just some roughhousing in his bedroom. Certainly not anything to elicit such a strong reaction from his mother. But he supposes the truth doesn’t really matter when you’re on the outside looking in, the suspicions in your mind constantly clouding your judgement.

There were always _rumors_ about Richie making their way around Derry. There were rumors about Eddie and Beverly as well, and even Mike. But most of them were about Richie, who Eddie was closest to (something his mother really seemed to hate), and she’d heard things from her so-called _friends_ at church,people who respected Butch Bowers but disliked the Toziers for being so _odd_. And she’d stuck to those whisperings like paper on glue, never again chuckling under her breath at any of Richie’s remarks the way she once would. There'd been a loud thump one day in December, just Eddie and Richie falling off the bed and onto the floor after Eddie had stolen Richie’s favorite copy of _GoreZone_ and refused to give it back, and his mother had waltzed in at just the right ( _wrong_ ) time.

Eddie remembers that day well. Not so much due to his mother’s hysterics, but because of the way his body grew hot when Richie managed to pin him to the floor, one of his big hands capturing _both_ of Eddie’s wrists together, his other rucking up Eddie’s shirt to tickle his ribs mercilessly in retaliation for being such a little shit to him. Eddie had wanted Richie’s attention and Eddie had gotten exactly that, brain going fuzzy like a VCR when a tape ends, with how close their faces were. Richie still had freckles across his nose and cheeks, hidden beneath the gaudy frames of his glasses, but they stood out on his pale skin in the winter or in the summer when he took them off to swim. He still smelled like cigarette smoke, then, but only faintly, the scent of his soap and cologne covering entirely at such a close proximity. His front teeth remained crooked, steadfastly refusing his father’s insistence on braces, and his nose fit his face marginally better than it once had, though a prominent bump on the bridge he received from breaking it the year prior made it seem like it belonged on someone much older, with harsher features. His eyes, though… his eyes had gotten Eddie the most, making him feel breathless in the way that was usually reserved for getting the wind knocked out of him. They were somehow both dark and light, neutral colored but vibrant in every other sense, with big pupils and thick, short lashes. Richie had been doing a Voice—the British Guy, Eddie thinks—and it’d been more awful than usual, his wild laughter breaking it up at odd points, and Eddie had looked at him, blanketed under his warmth, and something deep inside him thought: _you could kiss him right now_.

It was a factual thought. Eddie _could_ have kissed Richie, realistically, because there was nothing between them, nothing there to stop their lips from colliding, but just because you can _do_ something doesn’t mean you _should_. Consequences were _not_ to be damned. 

It wasn’t really the thought itself that scared him, as he stared into Richie’s eyes, face hot and sides sore, gasping for air without worry. No. What had scared Eddie then, what frightened him beyond all belief, is that he couldn't say for certain he wouldn’t have gone through with it if not for his mother barging in with a screech. See, the thing is… Richie seems to think Eddie is _brave_ , has said it over and over again whenever Eddie needs to hear it, and when he’s around Richie he _does_ feel brave. In that moment he’d felt a surge of courage that left him sick once he realized what it could’ve made him do, and now part of him is happy that his mother won’t allow Richie in her house anymore, if only so he feels a little more in control of his feelings.

Something flickers over Richie’s expression, similar to the face he’d made when Sonia told him he was _dirty_ and no longer welcome in their home, though he smooths it out far quicker than he had in that situation.

“Ah, that’s just what Sonia wants you to think! She leaves the door unlocked for me every night, you just snore too loud to notice.”

“I don’t snore, jackass. And I’m starting to believe you really _do_ have a crush on my mom, which is super creepy—”

“You can’t fight love!”

Sadly, Eddie knows that all too well.

“I thought the qu-quarry would be a good place to draw Beverly,” Bill cuts in. “There’s a lot of natural light there. You guys could come, too.”

“What did I _just_ say about distractions?” Stan prompts. There’s a twinkle in his eyes when he glances at Richie that Eddie can’t name. He’s not sure he wants to. “They’re bad enough on their own. You and Bev would only make things worse.”

"You could use the clubhouse!" Ben blurts, sitting up from his hunched position with pink cheeks. "I—I know there’s not as much light, since it’s underground and all, but I brought down extra flashlights the other day. I could put them up tonight, if you want? We'll fill Mike in on what's up, so you can be alone. Um, you know, so we don't bug you or anything. "

“Hey, now _that’s_ an idea,” Bev says with her usual smirk. Ben smiles shyly at the praise. “The big hole near the hammock would be pretty good for contrast. Lots of shadows.”

“Yeah, the lighting down there could be interesting,” Bill easily agrees. “If you use a lot of sh-sh-shading you won’t have to worry so much about detail. You could play with lights and darks and really impress Mrs. Douglas.”

Eddie shrugs, tucking that bit of advice away, then turns to Richie to see what he thinks about the plans that are being formed around them. He’s stumped when he finds Richie looking a little frozen in place, color high on his cheeks and his throat working hard on a swallow. Eddie checks the others out of the corner of his eye but only Bill seems to be as confused as he is, while Bev, Stan, and Ben continue eating as if everything is completely fine.

“Rich?” Eddie wonders softly, just in case something _is_ wrong and he doesn’t want anyone to know.

It's like that time in Gym when Richie popped a boner during the height of puberty. He was spotting Eddie’s stretches when it happened, all the color draining out of him when Eddie noticed why he'd been sitting down instead of helping. Eddie pretended to feel sick just so he could help get Richie to the locker room as covertly as possible because they had shared that class with Patrick Hockstetter, who tended to keep an uncomfortably close eye on Richie under _normal_ circumstances. All Eddie wanted to do was shield Richie from that sort of leering. 

The Losers would never react badly to anything Richie could say or do, but sometimes Eddie feels as if he’ll burst if he tries to hide how much he truly cares for longer than necessary. It's in the quiet, private moments that he ever lets that side or him show.

“Huh?”

“Tomorrow, after school? The clubhouse? Are we good or not?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

They drop the subject after that, thankfully, finishing up lunch and going about the rest of their day. Richie is back to normal by the time they wave goodbye on the front steps, slipping into cars and hopping onto bikes, setting off on their merry ways.

Eddie doesn’t think on the fact that he’s set himself up to draw a portrait of _Richie_ , in the dark clubhouse, all alone with no one to act as a buffer between them, for the rest of the afternoon—too distracted by homework and television and a phone call from Mike to ask about the likelihood of tetanus after cutting his arm on an old nail—until he’s tossing in bed, and then that’s _all_ he can think about. He lies awake for a long time, only falling asleep when his eyes grow too heavy to keep open, and he’s fairly certain he has a dream about the Losers, older and thriving on their own. When he awakens he can’t recall a single thing.

* * *

****[Wednesday]** **

Richie asks, multiple times throughout the day, if Eddie is sure he wants to waste his “already meager talents” on drawing his “ugly mug” for such a large portion of a grade. Eddie doesn’t know if Richie is serious. They all have issues, of course, and Richie tends to overcompensate for his insecurities in a myriad of ways (namely, brushing them off with a joke or going in the opposite direction and boasting about things like his quote-unquote _animal magnetism_ ), but Eddie can’t fathom a world where Richie Tozier looks in the mirror and sees something _ugly._ So Eddie chooses to focus on the other part of that statement, lest he give something away by accidentally _complimenting_ Richie, and instead focuses on feigning outrage over the crack about his (admittedly less than stellar) skill-set.

They shout and laugh for ten minutes straight on their trek off school grounds, Richie sounding obnoxious enough for a group passing by to tell him to shut up, and Eddie tells _them_ to mind their fucking business because Richie is beaming so bright, not caring about how his teeth look, nose scrunching and cheeks splotchy from lack of air. Eddie always gets a little thrill out of the proud way Richie looks at him whenever he steps out of his comfort zone.

They stop walking their bikes a few blocks away and begin riding them, starting a race that Richie wins only because his legs are longer and can peddle twice as much times as Eddie in the same amount of time. Only one of them is winded by the end of it, though, so Eddie’s pretty sure he’s the real winner in the long run.

“I’m serious!” Richie explains, bikes falling to the forest floor as Eddie scoffs and stomps through roots and grass. Richie sucks ay remembering where the hatch is, but Eddie never forgets, has always had an impeccable sense of direction. His wildest dream, between the ages of 9 and 12, was to be a NASCAR driver, taking each bending track with perfect knowledge and control. Beverly insists he’d be better suited as a doctor. “Dude legit pissed his pants! I'm talkin' yellow puddle beneath his freaking _feet_ type of shit. It was hilarious!”

“It’s _gross_! Why wouldn’t he just ask to go to the bathroom? Or, screw asking, just fucking make a run for it? Who wouldn't take a lunch detention over literally passing your pants? Weigh the options! Now one of the janitor's is gonna have to clean that up. Don't you feel bad?”

“Eh,” Richie says with a shrug, the toes of his battered Vans stepping on the backs of Eddie’s well-loved pair of Geox shoes. “It’ll probably be Bev’s dad. Nothing to be sad about.”

“True,” Eddie concedes, feeling himself frown at just the mention of Alvin Marsh. “But it’s still gross.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but that’s what makes it so funny! It’s literal toilet humor! People love that kind of gag.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“ _Pfft._ Don’t act like your above it, Eddie, my love. I got you laughing pretty hard the other day when I made those fart noises every time Stan took a step, remember? Mr. Klein got so mad.”

Eddie cracks a grin despite himself, the memory crashing into him at full force. Even _Stan_ found it funny, after his initial annoyance, and Eddie had laughed so hard he worried he might puke.

“You’re so dumb,” he fondly sighs, not looking back at Richie before throwing open the hatch and hopping down the ladder.

“ _You’re_ dumb,” he hears Richie retort, landing into the clubhouse behind him.

“Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“Hey, I’ve gotta rest my genius _sometime_. Being this clever is exhausting, and that Lit test used up all my reserves.”

“Hm, yeah. It was pretty bad.” Swinging his backpack off his shoulders, Eddie drops into a crouch, careful not to let his bare knees touch the dirt floor. He rummages around for his sketchbook and pencils while Richie pulls out his boombox and a new magazine. Eddie grabs a bag of cookies after he locates his supplies and tosses them over, hitting Richie square in the face with a noisy crinkle. “But this is gonna be worse, trust me.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Eddie glances up at the quiet response, but Richie’s already stepped over to the hammock, facing away as sets everything onto the overturned crate beside it. “So… how do you want me, boyo?” he asks in a terrible Irish accent. He’d modeled after a cop, Officer Nell, they used to come across while dicking around in the barrens. It sounds nothing like him—or _any_ Irish person, if Eddie had to guess—but there’s a certain charm to it regardless.

He pretends the words _how do you want me_ have nothing to do with the way his body flushes.

“Just—just sit there, I guess.”

“Wow. Thanks, Professor. Very informative,” Richie quips, though he climbs onto the swinging length of cloth anyway, settling into a reclining position. He clasps his hands against his stomach as Eddie looks him over, trying not to linger in any one spot for too long.

“I’m not _Bill_ ,” Eddie grumbles, tilting his head this way and that in an attempt to gauge if the light creeping through the slats will work. He determines that it will, with some extra help from the bulky flashlights Ben said he’d placed in the corner. “I don’t know how shit like this works. Hold on.”

“ _Please, Eddie, don’t make me wait too long!_ ” Richie croons, swaying back and forth while Eddie flits around, grabbing a couple of lights to chain to the ceiling. The shadows look nice this way, if he does say so himself, making Richie’s features look even more dramatic than usual. _Striking_ , he would say if he were anything like Bill or Ben.

“I hate that song,” he complains, dusting his hands off on his shorts and grabbing his pencil and book. “It better not be on whatever tape you picked today.”

“It’s not,” Richie assures, wiggling around to make room for Eddie as he climbs in. True to his word, when he reaches over to hit play it is _not_ The Teen Queens that begins playing, but rather a terrible song by someone called Right Said Fred that Richie loves to laugh at.

“You shitbird,” Eddie says accusingly, not turning it off. Oftentimes the first song is always a joke, so the ones that follow will most likely be better. At least he can tune out now and focus on getting filling a crisp, blank page with a good outline, while he can. They’re both guaranteed to get bored once they’ve been sitting for awhile. “Tilt your head up and keep it there. I’ll try to do your eyes first so you can read your magazine after..”

“Whatever you want,” Richie replies in that strangely subdued tone.

Shaking it off, Eddie puts his pencil to the page and tries to stay light-handed with his strokes, the way he knows Bill does, while glancing up at Richie’s frozen expression every few seconds. It’s almost unsettling, having him stare so openly, even with how often Richie blinks, but Eddie can’t help feeling a little thrill from it too. They’re close like this, legs slotted between each other, torsos tilted upward instead of leaning back. The scratching of the led is louder than the music drifting over from the crate, which has thankfully switched to another, less irritating song, and then another and another as time slowly crawls.

Richie squirms here and there, remaining silent and relatively still for the most part, humming along to the music or readjusting his legs to get comfortable. Eddie’s hand slips when long fingers encircle his calf, just above his sock, but he pretends not to notice and drags out an eraser to fix his mistake.

“I’m done with your eyes,” he says suddenly, face flushing when, the next time he glances over, he sees the way Richie has tilted his head back to look at him through lidded eyes—dark behind coke-bottle lenses, lashes framing those sparkling depths perfectly beneath expressive brows. The adam’s apple in the center of his long, pale throat juts prominently.

Richie takes that as the hint it is and shrugs, lifting his magazine off the crate without jostling either of them and looking away for the first time since this started. Eddie sighs and props one of his legs up, setting the sketchbook on his thigh in a position that he’s sure hides some of his face. Richie is still visible, which is kind of the whole point, not just because Eddie needs to draw him but… but because he just wants to _stare,_ to freely take all of Richie in. He doesn’t get to, usually. Doesn’t let himself. But this is the perfect opportunity to just sit and catalogue every single thing about Richie Tozier that Eddie Kaspbrak only ever lingers on in his dreams.

His hair is wavier than it used to be, longer, curling slightly around his ears and over his forehead in the heat, tickling the cheekbones that are high and sharp with the continuous loss of baby fat. His mouth is wide and plump, lips always chapped and slightly parted, barely hiding the crookedness of his front teeth. He’s got a giant smile, complete with crinkles around the corners that will one day become permanent and an overbite that is really only obvious when he laughs, loud and carefree and crackling, even as his voice continues to deepen in pitch.

His blocky jaw had been one of the first ij the group to grow hair worthy of shaving, which Eddie had been very pissy about at the time, and the square shape of it complements the broadness of his shoulders and the long length of his legs, the wide expanse of his hands, his spindly fingers giving way to half-bitten nails. His garish wardrobe is still too baggy and ill-fitting on his thin, lanky frame but his feet look as if they belong exclusively in clown shoes—coming second only to Mike after he shot up taller than all of them one summer, but still a half a size bigger than Ben, who happens to be exactly Richie’s height, right down to the inch. 

Richie, who has always been larger than life, seems all-encompassing to Eddie now. Suffocating. He reaches for his inhaler sometimes, whenever Richie’s touch lingers or his jokes get too playful, almost devastatingly so. But Eddie isn’t fragile _, dammit_ , and Richie knows that better than anyone, constantly doing dumb shit just so Eddie can prove it to himself by joining in.

Richie is funny and smart and irritating and sweet and interesting and annoying and beautiful, and Eddie is so _fucked_. He knows what it means when his tummy twists into knots, when his chest becomes a vice around his heart, when his palms sweat and his mouth twitches and all he can think is _Richie Richie Richie._ It’s happening right this second, so he knows what it _means_ and he knows it’s supposed to be _wrong_ , but he’s helpless to stop it, helpless to turn back, so deep in his forbidden feelings at this stage that there’s no other way for him to be. Not with Richie, his best friend, the boy he thinks about in ways that would make his mother drop dead if she ever poked her head out of the sand.

“Can’t figure it out?”

Eddie startles from his reverie, not having anticipated the sound of Richie’s voice. He realizes, after scrubbing a hand over his face, that he must’ve been daydreaming for a while, not having touched his work at all since Richie started reading. He’s fiddling with his boombox, watching Eddie through his peripheral as he switches tapes.

“No, sorry. I just…”

“It’s not as easy as you thought, right?”

“Well, duh. You know I hate this class. I’m not _good_ at artsy shit.”

“You should’ve just gone with Bill and asked Bev, too. He could’ve given you some tips.”

“No way,” Eddie says, attempting to add some more strands to Richie’s wild mop of hair. “Mrs. Douglas would probably think I was cheating. I’ll get it done, hold on.”

“Eddie, stop.” It's Richie's tone, bordering on desperate, rather than the request that catches him off guard, making him pause mid-stroke again. “I don’t wanna be the reason you fail. Just—go ask someone else.”

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, confused and frowning. “I’m probably gonna fail no matter _who_ I draw. I just need to focus. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s _not_.” The crack in his voice isn’t like usual. It sounds thick and frustrated and a little like he might _cry._ Eddie, baffled, pulls his leg away from Richie’s limp grasp to sit up straighter. “Look, man. I know you didn’t ask me ‘cause I owed you, okay?”

Eddie’s heart feels like it’s about to suddenky explode. A chill runs down his spine. He'd shake his head if he could move.

“What’re you talking about?” Eddie carefully asks, hoping against all hope it isn’t what he thinks. Because if Richie knows how he feels… he doesn’t seem happy or even particularly neutral about it. In fact, he seems downright _distraught_. For the first time in a long time, Eddie thinks he might actually be sick for _real_.

“Don’t play dumb, Eds. You were staring at me all weird for, like, twenty minutes. I mean, I know I’m no Bill Denbrough, but I didn’t think I was _that_ bad. It’s really shitty, alright?”

“ _What?”_ Thoroughly confused and feeling not quite out of the woods yet, Eddie snaps his sketchbook shut and sits up all the way, knocking Richie’s knees to the side. He's less panicked but even more confused. “What the fuck are you _talking_ about?”

“Dude, you asked good ‘ol Four Eyes to be your model. Mr. Bucky Beaver. Lankenstein himself! At first I thought… I thought, um—but no, you picked me ‘cause you figured it’d be easy. Someone like Greta or Bev, they’re pretty, you’d never be able to work around that, but someone like _me?_ Can’t make ugly look uglier. I get it. Ha-ha, nice one. But you _still_ can’t fucking do it, so how do you think that makes me feel?”

Richie throws his hands up on the air, magazine dropping to the ground with a thud. There aren’t any tears in his eyes but his nose is awfully red, the way it gets when he's cold or upset. The way it gets when he tries to play off just how badly something or someone has hurt his feelings. It stings, understanding that Eddie that has made him feel so bad. It makes no sense.

“Okay, okay, I— _what?_ Dude, you’re—you—” He’s spluttering, unable to decide what to say. It doesn’t help that Richie’s staring at him with his bug-eyes, still here despite thinking Eddie could view him so cruelly, like he wants to be proven wrong even as he’s resigned to what he thinks is the truth. Which is stupid. Eddie is _fuming_. “What the _fuck,_ Richie? I don’t think you’re ugly. Why would I? You’re _not_ ugly.”

“Yeah? Tell that to everyone who says otherwise. They might be bullies but they aren’t _blind_.”

“Wellyou _are,_ dipshit, so what the fuck do _you_ know?” He’s shouting, though Richie doesn’t flinch. He remains reclined in the hammock, shoulders tense and legs hanging over the edge, fingers digging into the excess fabric at the front of his baby blue button-up. The faded flower pattern sticks out like a sore thumb, much like Richie in this shitty town, and Eddie wouldn’t trade it for anything. “How could you think that about yourself?”

“What, like _you_ don’t have insecurities?”

“Of course I do. We _all_ do. Isn’t that the point? Why else would we call ourselves _losers?_ Things people hate about us are things none of us have ever cared about.”

“So you're saying our friends don't care that I'm ugly? Gee, fucking _thanks,_ pal.”

“Oh my _god_.” Eddie can’t believe this idiot sometimes. He really can’t. “Would you just—would you stop _saying_ that? Ugly is literally the _opposite_ of what you are!”

“... huh?”

Richie utters that one word quietly, audibly _and_ visibly baffled, blinking owlishly. Eddie has no choice but to freeze and take stock of what he’s just revealed. Too much, clearly. His throat burns, lungs feeling as if they’re about to burst. He reaches for his fanny pack, fingers fumbling against the zipper, but pauses.

Taking a deep breath, Eddie shakes his head and swallows hard, skipping over his little slip-up to work past this.

“I think I’m, like, insane or annoying, so I guess that means you think that too? And I guess you think Bev is _dirty_ and Stan is—”

“Wait, wait, no, hold up. What's the opposite of ugly? Handsome? Hot as fuck?”

Richie’s still got that wounded look about him, vulnerability spilling out of his pores, but his tone has taken on its usual joking lilt and it makes Eddie’s face and neck burn.

“No,” Eddie lies. “No, that’s not what I—don’t change the subject!”

“Ugh. Of _course_ I don’t think that about you guys, what the hell? The Losers are my family. And you, Eds… yeah, you’re kind of annoying and crazy, but you're cute too so it balances out.”

Eddie should’ve known Richie would turn this into a joke, the same way he does everything. Even his own issues aren't exempt.

“That’s not funny,” Eddie tells him lowly, perhaps meaning it for the very first time. Richie, to his credit, seems to get the memo quick, his smile instantly falling. “I was trying to make you feel better and then you just—” Taking a deep breath through his nose, Eddie tucks the sketchbook to his chest, fist clenching around his pencil, and releases it in a rush. “You know what? This is stupid. I should have picked someone else.”

“But you didn’t,” Richie reminds him, something dark swirling in his gaze. He sits up, hunching in on himself. They’re practically nose-to-nose like this, sinking in the middle of the hammock. Eddie should really scoot back. He doesn’t. “And it’s… it’s not because you thought I’d be _easy?”_ Eddie huffs and looks away, biting his lip when Richie sets a tentative hand on his bare knee, hiding it from view due to the sheer size of his palm and unknowingly setting his nerves ablaze. The bone in his skinny wrist sticks out and that’s all Eddie chooses to focus on. “Dude, hello? I could be making a killer sex joke right now but I’m showing restraint so you won’t go all Hulk and storm off. The least you could do is answer me.”

“What?” Eddie demands, turning to touch his feet to the ground so Richie’s hand will slip off. His breaths don’t come any easier. “What the fuck are you even asking me? No, for the last time, I don't think you're ugly.”

“You think I’m the _opposite_.”

A frustrated noise escapes his throat.

“So? So _what?_ You’re my friend and I like looking at you, big fucking deal!”

The expression on Richie’s face (mouth moving like a fish out of water, body frozen like a deer in the headlights, eyes round and staring at Eddie like he’s grown two heads, the whole shebang) says it very much _is_ a big fucking deal. Eddie isn’t predisposed to anxious vomiting the way Richie is, but this moment might be an exception.

“I’m, uh—I—”

Speechless Richie would normally be a sight to behold. Now, it's merely worrisome.

Eddie thinks, desperately, that he could backtrack; try to spin his comment into something a little more innocent, try to turn it into a joke the way Richie does when he calls Eddie _cute_. But he can’t do that, can he? Not when Richie convinced himself his own looks were somehow worse than Eddie’s abysmal artistic talents. _That_ hurts almost worse than what’s sure to come, the longer he stews in this confession without explanation.

“I gotta go,” he says instead, snatching up his supplies and clutching them to his chest. It seems to finally knock Richie out of his daze since he jumps to his feet a second after Eddie does.

“What? No you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do,” Eddie insists, rushing toward the ladder.

He's bending over to grab his backpack when a hand shoots out to slip around his wrist, overshooting in force and speed and causing Eddie to drop his bag and stumble backwards. Richie falls with him, his added weight and overlong legs sending them crashing into a support beam that creaks ominously when they hit. Eddie clings to Richie on instinct, both of them screaming in fear, but the clubhouse remains intact despite all the wear-and-tear they’ve put it through over the years.

It takes a couple minutes for Eddie’s heart rate to slow, still nowhere close to normal, and another couple minutes for him to realize he shouldn’t be leaning into Richie’s grip on his arms. So he shoves away, trying for the ladder a second time, only to get shoved back in retaliation. There’s a wheezy whistle in his rough exhale.

Richie isn’t really keeping him in place—is sort of hovering, more than anything—but Eddie still finds it hard to separate, even as he wiggles, face flushing hot at the gentle touch of Richie’s fingertips against his skin. The shivery bumps that erupt at the roots of his hair follicles aren’t just from the autumn chill sweeping through the cracksoin the hatch.

“ _Eddie,”_ Richie pleads, hurt in a way that isn’t just rare but pretty much unheard of. He shouldn’t be surprised that Richie can say so much with so little effort, although he _is_ surprised to find that he doesn’t know how to decipher it. They never have this problem, precisely because Eddie is sure to never reveal his loosely locked thoughts. But now he has and here they are. “Eds—”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie hisses without any real heat, skirting his gaze away when Richie’s eyes become too searching.

He’d grown out of that complaint at age eleven, after Bill had taken Richie's teasing nickname and made it common. Beverly calls him _Eds_ more than Richie does, these days, but hearing it tumble from his lips now is just _too much_.

When Eddie reaches for his fanny pack this time it's to pull out his inhaler for real, shaking it at his side as he chokes on air. They all know he doesn’t _need_ it, that these "asthma attacks" are triggered by events that fill him with anxiety, but the Losers are too polite to question his continued use of it. 

Richie, it seems, has run out of patience.

“C’mon, seriously? You don’t need that.”

“Fuck off!”

“No!” He bats Eddie’s hand away, thick lips pouting. “Stop! I—I like looking at you too, okay?”

Eddie feels his eyes widen at the admission, chin wobbling uncertainly. Richie’s eyes are big behind his glasses—shuttered, same as usual—and yet there’s a sliver of something new in those mysterious depths. Or maybe not _new_ , per-se; Eddie swears he’s seen it somewhere before, just doesn't know when or why. It infuriates him.

“You don’t get it,” he shouts, voice rising in pitch the closer he gets to having a full-blown meltdown. Richie is able to sense it and so he lets him go, dropping his hands but leaving his feet in the same spot, keeping himself planted in front of Eddie like a very tall, very skinny tree.

“Then tell me,” Richie implores.

He's being unusually patient and perceptive, throwing Eddie for a massive loop. He feels a little trapped, caught between Richie and the support beam, but he can't deny the exhilaration he gets from being so close, from being so _seen_. Eddie always liked to think that Richie felt the same, whenever _he_ became overly greedy for attention in his own way, poking and nudging and snarking at anyone who so much as looked his way. It was _especially_ evident when Eddie was in the crosshairs _,_ like Richie wanted to be the center of his world too. Maybe that wishful thinking. Or maybe not. Things are definitely not as set in stone as they previously seemed.

Eddie shakes his head wildly, pain shooting through his hand the harder he clutches his inhaler. Richie’s chest expands slowly with a deep breath and his expression crumples. He wipes it away quickly, replaces it with half-lidded blankness, but Eddie knows the shift well enough to clock some disappointment.

And then Richie shrugs. The movement of his broadening shoulders is exaggerated, a clear indication that he’ll let the subject drop the way Eddie wants, no matter Richie's own feelings on the subject. 

His heart drops into his stomach.

“Alright, fine. Don’t come whining to me when you fail, then."

“You’re an asshole,” Eddie bites, meaning it but not entirely.

Richie smiles wryly, finally stepping back.

“Takes one to know one, dude.”

Eddie scoffs and turns away, ready to leave his bag. 

“You started it,” he grumbles like a child, always wanting the final word the same way Richie always wants the final laugh. Neither of those things feels appropriate right now. 

“I didn’t even do anything!” Richie bellows. The frustration is his tone makes him sound older. Believable. 

And, well, _that_ gets under Eddie’s skin, cranks the heat up beneath his blood and gets it boiling because bull-fucking- _shit_ , Richie didn’t do anything! All of this is Richie’s fucking _fault_! Eddie wouldn't be emotionally compromised if Richie wasn't so untamed! If he wasn't so funny, so vivacious, so loyal, so attractive. If he didn't make Eddie feel so alive and worthy of love—not the smothering kind from his mother or the comforting kind from his friends, but a whole new version of that four letter word that Eddie only ever saw as a concept (from the soaps on TV, sure, but from Ben and Bev and Bill, mostly) until is splashed filthy water into his face and went on and on about his mother's underwear.

Jesus, he really _is_ insane.

Eddie whirls around, hand bisecting the air in a decisive slice, and, against his better judgement, decides to stay firm in their argument rather than run away.

“It _is_ your fault, dumbass! All of this! _All_ of it!”

Richie balks.

“All of _what?_ Did your mom slip you something in your breakfast this morning? You’ve been acting weird all fucking day!”

“ _You’re_ the one acting weird!”

“Whatever. I thought you had to go.”

“Oh, so _now_ you don’t wanna talk about it?”

Richie throws his hands up, much like he had in the hammock, exasperated but possibly still hurt. He looks tired, above all else. Eddie doesn’t want to relate, but he can. 

“What the fuck is going on right now? Do you wanna go home or do you wanna talk? Is there even anything to _talk_ about? Like—holy hell, Eddie, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know!” he cries, and then he’s horrified to find that he actually _is_ crying, or on the verge of it, hot tears welling up in his eyes and threatening to spill over. His nose begins to run, mucus coating the back of his throat, which only serves to distress him further. Getting over his aversion to bodily fluids is still a work in progress.

Richie’s eyes become impossibly wider at the first sign of tears and his hands fly up in front of his chest in a gesture that would be placating if it came from anyone else but is purely _panicked_ coming from Richie. He doesn't have the best track record with sincere emotions (reluctant to deal, hesitant to express), but he's always had an instinct regarding Eddie. He appears to be torn between wrapping Eddie in his arms or shoving him aside to scramble up to the surface. The decision he makes is not surprising.

“Eds, Eddie, hey. Don’t cry, alright? Everything’s fine, we’re cool! Nothing happened.”

“ _You_ happened."

Richie flinches.

“Well, fuck me then. Take it up with Mags and Went if you’re that pissed about my existence. It sure as shit ain’t my fault.” _God_ , Eddie keeps messing this up, doesn’t he? Why did this have to happen? “Are you gonna go or what? If you’re not then _I_ am ‘cause this fuckin’ blows.”

“Richie—”

He rolls his eyes, shoves his glasses up his nose, and walks back over the hammock to grab his magazines and boombox. It's still playing music, song after song that Eddie has been ignoring, only now recognizing it as one of his new favorite mixes. 

The idea that he’s done something to push his best friend away, after all he's done to help, isn't one Eddie can let fester.

“Please wait,” he says without thinking, mouth always moving too fast. Richie, seconds away from hitting the stop button, immediately freezes and tilts his head to peek over his shoulder. “Look, I—”

“Did you mean what you said?”

“What?”

It's a reflexive response, one that makes Richie huff and shuffle, fingers disappearing into his mop of dark hair.

“Playing dumb? Really?“

“Fine! Fine, you jackass, yes. I meant what I said.”

Eddie _knows_ he isn’t imagining the rosy color rising high on Richie’s pale, sharp cheekbones.

“Okay,” he replies slowly. Eddie’s mouth goes dry when Richie tilts his head back, throat bobbing, tongue peeking out to swipe at his plump bottom lip, wetting the dry skin that Richie refuses to keep moistened with any sort of balm. “Okay. And I meant what _I_ said.” His voice cracks. “So what’s the big deal?”

Eddie feels fresh tears sting his eyes. No growth spurts and now he’s an emotional mess? He’d strangle puberty if he could.

“See? You _don’t_ get it.”

Richie's jaw clenches, nostrils flaring with annoyance. He never loses his temper with Eddie, hardly ever loses his joyous exterior at all, but it’s obvious his tolerance is wearing thin.

He opens his big mouth. Eddie doesn’t let him speak.

“You know Jennifer? From your shitty AV Club?” Richie’s face twists in confusion at Eddie’s sudden query. He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even comment on Eddie insulting his newest interest, just stands there staring with his giant glasses and his perfectly square jaw. “And how she’s always staring at you? Bev says she looks at you that way ‘cause she likes you. _Like-_ likes you. And I know I always say she's wrong, that there's now anyone could have a crush on Trashmouth Tozier, but that's only because—”

“Eddie,” Richie croaks, eyes growing impossibly wider, and maybe he doesn’t want to hear anything more but Eddie can’t keep it in now that it’s all ready to spew. 

Eddie can be indecisive on a lot of ways, thinking about every decision and the pros and cons of making just _one,_ but when he finally chooses what he wants he knows damn well he'll chase after it. 

The air has shifted and so too has his mind, and all he knows right now is that the only way out of this predicament is _through_. God, he's never been so scared in his life. Adrenaline is a hell of an enabler.

“Because I look at you that way, too," Eddie finishes after a fraught pause. There’s no relief in the declaration, but he doesn’t feel as sick as he imagined he would either, with his feelings airing out like dirty laundry. Eddie’s chin juts as he raises his head, hands clenched into fists at his sides because regardless of the outcome, good or bad or fucking catastrophic, there’s no going back. “ _I_ have a crush or—or _something_ on Trashmouth Tozier, alright? But I guess you never noticed.”

Richie’s jaw works like he’s chewing something (with his mouth closed, for once), though he remains unnervingly silent. Eddie sniffles, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand and grimacing at the wet feeling it leaves behind. A burst of static erupts from the boombox as another song takes over, the upbeat tune making things worse.

“You can’t hate me,” he says next, a plea that’s dressed as an order. _I can’t lose you_ , is what he means. That might be overdoing it. “You _can’t_ hate me and you—you can’t tell anyone! Please, Richie? I know I don’t have a right to ask you that, I don’t deserve it, but _fuck_ , I just—”

It really feels like he can’t breathe now, far worse than any other time before. His vision blurs for a second, the whole room turning upside down, and Eddie tries to bring his inhaler up to his lips but it falls from his weak grasp with a clatter that’s nearly drowned out by the voice singing on the tape.

“Hey, hey—” Richie blurts in a rush, voice hitting the octave it used to rest at before their bodies started changing and life started getting complicated. “Eddie!”

His name is far away, same as the pain that blooms in the center of his back when he tips onto his heels and falls like a sack of potatoes; distant, like everything except the blood rushing in his ears.

“Eddie, hey, look at me. Eddie, _look at me_.”

He does, he thinks, because there’s a crisp spot in his vision that Richie’s face takes up, the decorated walls of the clubhouse contorting like he’s looking through a fisheye lens. But Richie’s face is clear and worried, the freckles scattered beneath his frames appearing dark in the glowing rays of afternoon light that falls perfectly from the ceiling.

There are hands on him, clutching hard at his shoulder, ghosting softly over his cheek, cupping his jaw while plastic gets shoved between his lips. The mouthpiece of his inhaler, Eddie realizes, so he takes a pull when Richie tells him too. His hands shoot up to grab at Richie’s when he begins to yank away, keeping it steady so he can sneak a couple more greedy inhalations. It shouldn’t help but it always does, his brain having been trained years ago to associate an inhaler with calmness and security. _Not_ having asthma isn’t going to miraculously change that effect. Richie may give him shit for his _gazebos_ , but he also always understands when Eddie needs that type of reassurance most.

‘— _It’s circumstantial, it’s nothing written in the sky. And we don’t even have to try,’_ Eddie hears from the speakers as he slowly comes back to himself. Richie’s eyes, which flit around his face rapidly, are filled with concern. ‘ _But we’ll be shaking like mud, buildings of glass. Sinking into the bay, they’ll be under the rocks again. You don’t have to say, I know you’re afraid. It’s only natural that I should want to be there with you. It’s only natural that you should feel the same way too. It’s circumstantial, something I was born to. It’s only natural, can I help it if I want to?’_

 _“_ Jesus Christ, Eddie,” Richie huffs, finally locking gazes. “Don’t fucking scare me like that!”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

It’s common for Eddie to feel slightly numb after an attack, but that’s not the case here, not with Richie plastered to his front (stroking his face, encapsulating him in his warmth), a pleasing contradiction of hard edges and soft centers. Is this what being _high_ is like?

The music cuts off with a final line (‘ _can I help it if I want to?’_ ), signaling the end of the tape by plunging them into silence. Richie doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on Eddie’s probably pale features. This is usually the point, in any serious situation, where Richie would crack a joke and hop away, but he _doesn’t_. He stays exactly where he’s at, instead. Bent over to match their differing heights.

Eddie, still against the support beam, bumps his head back against it and sighs. The movement displaces Richie’s touch, dropping it down to the sides of his neck, pinkies resting atop his collarbones. He relishes that feeling for all of five seconds before realizing what got them into this position in the first place: his _feelings_.

Eddie fists the unbuttoned fabric of Richie’s ugly shirt with the intention of shoving him away, but the intensity with which he’s being gawked at ends up pinning him in place.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Richie swears, hushed and sincere. “Um, about you. Most of the Losers already know about—about _me_ , but…”

“You?”

Richie’s hand slides around Eddie’s neck to cradle his nape, grounding him him in reality as well ass anchoring himself.

“Stan and—and Ben and Bev, they kept saying you probably felt the same, but I didn’t—” He chuckles nervously, licking his lips. Eddie’s vision zeroes in on the motion. “I couldn’t risk that. I _couldn’t_. But then you go and you just—”

“What the fuck? Wait—”

“I like looking at you, too!” Richie, on the verge of hysteria, repeats. Only now it has a whole new meaning. Or maybe the meaning had always been the same, but now Eddie _understands_. He thinks. He wishes. “Why’re you shocked? I already said so, didn’t I?”

“But I thought—”

“You thought I didn’t _get it_. Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure _you’re_ the one who doesn’t.”

“Me?” Eddie splutters, off-kilter in the best and worst way. “I’m the one who—”

“Who asked me here so you’d have a reason to check me out?”

Another wave of heat rolls over Eddie’s skin. He shakes Richie’s lanky frame with the tight grip he still has on his shirt.

“Let me talk, asshole! And don’t get all smug. You were literally about to cry over thinking you were ugly, like, five minutes ago.”

“Well, which one of us is the pussy who _actually_ cried, huh? Pretty sure that wasn’t me.”

“Beep beep,” Eddie lamely says, sniffling stuffily. His attempt at turning away merely presses them tighter together because Richie refuses to fucking _move,_ boxing him in against the pole like he suddenly can’t stand having any space exist between them.

“You know I could never hate you, right?” The lack of humor in his tone has Eddie turning to face him, breath hitching in his chest at the obvious fondness painting Richie’s features soft and sweet. “Even if you… didn’t feel the same. You’re my best friend, Eddie. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“What if _you_ didn’t feel the same?” he wonders, because how can he not? He spent so long thinking that was the case, before today.

“I don’t think that’d change anything either.”

“You don’t think?” 

“I mean, it’s kinda hard to imagine a version of myself that isn’t in love with you.”

Eddie makes an embarrassing noise at that, unable to speak properly due to all the thoughts swirling around inside his head. Richie’s mouth snaps shut, what he just said hitting them both like a runaway train.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Richie spits, lifting his hands off Eddie to ruffle the hair at the crown of his head. He steps back hastily, not getting far before Eddie jerks him forward, nearly knocking their heads together in his haste. His knuckles ache and turn white with the force of his grip on Richie’s wrinkled shirt. “Shit, forget I said that, okay? Let’s rewind back to the part where—”

“You _love_ me?” Eddie asks, completely awed. "As a best friend?” There’s bile in his throat when he adds, “As a brother?”

“Dude, I’m not _that_ fucked up.”

“How am I supposed to know? This is fucking confusing!”

“I carved our initials on the Kissing Bridge,” Richie blabs, hitting Eddie with another blow. His body goes all twitchy and squirmy the way it used to, growing up, whenever he had too much energy. He’s mellowed out since then, but only because he’s busied himself with hobbies outside of video games and _your mom_ jokes. You’d never know it now, though, with how he’s shifting from foot to foot like he’s got ants in his pants. “Whatever that means to you.”

“When?” Eddie whispers, digging through memories to figure out if there was ever a time such a thing could’ve happened. Richie Tozier? Carving initials on a bridge synonymous with _romance?_ The reason is obvious, but Eddie still finds himself asking: “ _Why?”_

“Knock-knock, anybody home?” Richie's knuckles bang against Eddie’s head. “I already told you. And it was—it was when we were thirteen.”

Eddie goes slack-jawed, skin prickling with heat. He feels tingly all over and hopes he’s not having a heart attack. Statistically rare for a sixteen year old, but not impossible!

“ _Thirteen?_ ”

That had been the age Eddie broke his arm, back when Bowers was still around, and Eddie learned about his mother’s lies in regards to his health. That had been the age Eddie found his bravery, treading through filthy sewer tunnels on a dare, climbing into the hammock with Richie on a whim, sneaking out to the train tracks by himself on an urge. That had been the age he realized the things he felt about Richie were _not_ , in fact, the same things he felt for Bill and Stan, or Ben and Bev and Mike when they joined their little group. That the things he felt for Richie were… intrinsically more.

(At fifteen, Eddie discovered that _more_ actually meant _love._ )

“I didn’t—um, I know you said _like-_ like, ‘cause you’re just a wee lad and all, but… uh, you meant it?"

“I did,” Eddie whispers, tummy twisting when Richie’s gaze flicks down to his mouth. "I do."

Richie blushes for real this time, the reaction unmistakable, then quickly looks away, ashamed to have been caught. Eddie doesn’t want that. Tentatively, his own shame ebbing and flowing like a tidal wave inside him, he loosens his hand on Richie’s shirt to place his palm flat against his chest, over his sternum. The stutter of his heartbeat practically vibrates through Eddie’s arm.

“Can you say it?” Richie pleads, rough and low, and oh. _Oh_. The muscles in Eddie’s thighs twitch.

“You say it first.”

“I fucking _did!_ ”

“Again! Please?”

Richie frowns, fear sparking in his eyes. He shoves his glasses up his sweaty nose with a bony knuckle.

“Eddie, I…” he rasps. “I really like you and—”

“No,” Eddie interjects, brows furrowing. Richie mirrors him.

“No?”

“Say the other thing.”

“Eddie, come on.” Richie laughs, clearly uncomfortable as he shakes his hands out at his sides. Eddie wants to feel them again. The best he can do is reach down and carefully curl his clammy fingers around Richie’s longer, even clammier ones. “I love you,” he repeats quietly, looking between their joined hands and Eddie’s eyes. Richie’s look suspiciously wet. “I know pretty much every adult in Derry keeps telling us we’re too young to know what _love_ is, but nit me. I’ve known it for a long time. Because of you. And maybe it’s wrong or bad or whatever, but if you feel… if you feel _anything_ for me like I do for you, then I don’t fucking care. So, uh, yeah. Do you maybe wanna say something? Or should I go fuck myself?”

“No,” Eddie grunts, stuck on the one word answers. _Although…_ No, no. Those types of dreams are better left to the darkness.

“You can say… whatever you need to say, whatever you _want_ to say. It’s just us.”

Eddie almost laughs at the casual way Richie says that. _Just us_. As if that doesn’t drive Eddie absolutely wild. He loves the Losers more than anything in the world, but nothing has ever compared to being the center of Richie’s universe. Nothing has ever compared to _this_.

 _Be brave_ , he tells himself. _You got this, Eds. Nothing to lose, everything to gain._

Rocking onto his toes, Eddie grabs the back of Richie’s neck, knuckles tangling in the curls resting at the nape, and yanks him down to press ( _smash_ ) their lips together in an approximation of a kiss. It’s not a very good one, all things considered. Nothing at all like the romantic comedies Ben often chooses for their weekly movie nights. But that’s mostly because Eddie’s lips are tightly pursed, the way they are when his mother insists he kiss her goodbye, while Richie’s lips are parted in shock, softer by far than anything Eddie had imagined, though definitely just as chapped.

And neither of them have any type of experience when it comes to this sort of thing, no matter how many times Richie boasts about _hooking up_ with a girl named Kay when the Tozier’s went to visit relatives in Chicago over the summer. (Eddie knows for a fact it isn’t true because Richie himself had said so, after Eddie left the clubhouse _fuming_ early one day in August because all Richie wanted to do was talk about his quote-unquote _dates_. He’d found Eddie at the pharmacy the next day and offered to buy him an ice cream cone, which they ate in Memorial Park, and Richie explained that nothing actually happened, he just wanted to seem cool in front of all their friends, most of whom were following Bill and Bev’s lead by becoming obsessed with the idea of relationships. Eddie said he didn’t get it and Richie said he didn’t either, and perhaps that right there should have been the first clue. Hindsight and all that. (Eddie hadn’t been sure why Kay agreed to write to Richie in the first place, but perhaps the reason isn’t so much of a mystery after all).

Still, it’s their first kiss in general _and_ their first kiss together, and while Eddie never expected it to be perfect he's nevertheless embarrassed when their noses bump painfully, the frames of Richie’s glasses scraping against Eddie’s brows. Their teeth clank on the way back, causing them to wince, and yet… Eddie feels more alive than he ever has before. 

“Your eyes are gonna pop out of your head,” he tells Richie weakly, teasing him for how hard he’s staring, insides swirling when Richie’s already prominent blush darkens.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” is Richie’s reverent response.

“What do you _mean_ , what the fuck?” Eddie huffs, resting his forearms on Richie’s big, bony shoulders. “You told me that you loved me and then I kissed you ‘cause I love you too. What were you expecting?”

“I’m sorry, you _WHAT?_ ”

Eddie cringes at Richie’s shrill shout, shivering when he’s pressed harder against the beam by Richie’s sagging weight.

“Are you gonna pass out?” he asks warily. “Here, if you’re feeling faint you should probably lay down—”

“Fuck you,” Richie retorts, laughing a little maniacally. Then, quieter, “ _Fuck_ , maybe. _”_

Eddie eases them down onto the dusty floor, their legs crossing like pretzels, knees knocking and heads bowed in close. Eddie doesn’t complain about getting his clothes filthy, he just… waits. And watches. Tries to comprehend everything that's happened, everything that's happen _ing._

“You’re not joking, right?” Richie wonders, scratching at his head. Eddie thinks, briefly, that maybe they should be wearing Stan’s shower caps, and then Richie’s words hit him and he’s just—

“No, no, I wouldn’t—unless, um, unless _you_ were joking…”

The idea itself makes his chest hurt so bad he feels like he’s being crushed, but he _knows_ Richie; knows that, even on days where he’s the biggest asshole imaginable, he would _never_ want to hurt Eddie in any way that wasn’t mendable.

“What the dick? No! No, no, I’m—I—” Eddie, on impulse, reaches out to grab Richie’s hands in his, their fingers slotting so naturally in place that he can’t imagine they were made for anything else. “I love you,” Richie says again, buoyed by the touch.

He darts his gaze around afterward, as if searching for a potential threat, but when he settles back on Eddie’s it’s with so much warmth that all the fear from earlier is temporarily smothered by intense relief. 

“I love you, too.” It feels so _weird_ to say that out loud, to know he isn’t the only one, to know it’s reciprocated. Nodding at his discarded notebook, he says, “That’s why I wanted it to be you. The stupid drawing for stupid fucking art class. Not because you owed me or because you’d be easy, just—”

“Because you wanted an excuse to check me out?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, choosing not to reply with anything scathing or dismissive. Richie’s toothy grin looks a little too fragile for that right now.

“Maybe,” he says instead. Really, it's a definite yes.

Richie scoots closer, no doubt staining the seat of his pants in the process, unfolding his long legs to bracket Eddie’s hips, whi takes the hint and does the same, placing his calves on Richie’s thighs and inhaling sharply when he brings their connected hands down to toy with the hem of his shorts.

“Is that why you wore these? Trying to get my attention?”

“ _No!_ ” Eddie loudly denies, though he’s not quite certain hia subconscious _hadn't_ been aiming for something along those lines. When Richie unlaces their hands to set them on Eddie’s ankles, smoothing them up and over his socks to curve around his knees, he figures it doesn’t matter. The decision was a good one. “You brought fucking _love songs_ for us to listen to,” he counters. “ _Definitely_ not as random as what I’m wearing.”

“Not true!” Richie cries, wiggling on the floor, their asses growing numb. “That shit was—it was leftover from when me and your mom—”

“Are you _really_ gonna be like this right now?”

“No,” he sighs, chewing his lip, pinkies caressing the underside of Eddie’s thigh. It’s an absentminded gesture, he’s sure, but Eddie’s reaction very much _isn’t_. He refuses to get _aroused_ right now, in the middle of such a big moment. His teenage hormones can fuck off. “Can I kiss you again?”

Or maybe not. Maybe his teenage hormones are destined to take over. Would that be so bad? 

Eddie hunches over slightly so he can grab onto Richie’s elbows, drawing their bodies ever closer. Their noses are touching, breaths mingling, and he's only now realizing that Richie doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke. That, even with how chaste their close-mouth kiss had been, the aftershock of him on Eddie’s lips hadn’t _tasted_ like cigarette smoke either. He smiles.

“ _I_ kissed _you_ , Rich.”

“Okay, then will you kiss me again?”

 _Shit,_ Richie is adorable, all pink and fidgety as he stares Eddie down. He hardly ever sees him flustered and can’t help basking in it, just a tad.

“Why am I the one doing all the work? Shouldn’t this be, like, a mutually beneficial thing?”

“Oh my god, don't be a little turd right now,” Richie whines, tightening his hold on the tight meat of Eddie’s thighs. If he feels the goosebumps there, he doesn’t comment on it. “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

Well, Eddie doesn’t have anything smart to say to _that._ All he can do is nod, barely blinking for fear of missing one second of Richie’s descent, neck craning down and lids drooping low as he leans, holding onto Eddie’s legs for dear life. The experimental grazing of their lips shoots a million tingles through every single one of Eddie’s nerve endings, even as it tickles.

“Wait,” he breathes wheezily, just before Richie adds pressure. They don't pull back, are left sitting lips with their mouths hardly touching, vibrating out of their skin while the moment hangs in the air.

“Yeah? What’s up?” Richie questions, which is fucking _ridiculous_ given their suspended position. Would they look like sculptures to a passerby? Would they be shattered or preserved?

“All those times you said I was cute,” he begins, because he _has_ to know now. He really, really does. “I get you were joking, but—but did you mean it at all? You said you like looking at me, so is it, um—”

“Eddie." Richie's voice is a little croaky. So is his laugh. But Eddie doesn’t have time to act indignant or pissed when one of Richie's hands leaves his thigh to cup his jaw, a calloused thumb rubbing his cheekbone soft and slow. He swallows a shaky gasp and listens. “Eddie, Eddie, of _course_ I meant it. I knew what a cutie you were the day we met, and now you're fucking—you’re _hot_. Or beautiful. Or, I dunno, you’re so—”

“Okay,” Eddie grits, trying in vain not to sound like a strangled cat. He grabs the back of Richie’s head and tilts it, holding him in place. “Okay, you can kiss me now.”

And, Jesus Christ, Richie _does_. It starts off awkward, since they really don’t know what they’re doing (outside of what they’ve seen in magazines and on television), and the pace is glacial, but they keep at it together, the way they do everything, never giving up, pushing where the other pulls until their mouths are practically numb. Richie presses the top of his tongue to Eddie’s upper lip, snaking it quick and gentle across the skin, retreating as fast as it came. Eddie nearly chokes in his haste to feel it again. _Gross_ , his brain tells him. _Wet and sloppy. Think of the germs!_ But then his heart reminds him that he’s _kissing Richie Tozier_ and Eddie doesn’t want it to end, especially not after Richie _squeaks_ against his jaw when Eddie climbs onto his lap and gets to work finding out why they call it “sucking face.”

They probably aren’t very good at this, objectively. Then again, Eddie has never been able to be objective with Richie. So, _subjectively_ , it’s freaking _amazing_. He feels floaty and stable at the same time, keyed-up and relaxed, buzzing with pleasure and contentment. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding away in his ears, can hear the wet sounds of their messy make-out session, a couple of birds twittering in the forest above, and he can hear the whimper Richie emits when Eddie splays his palms against his chest but he can _feel_ it too. The vibrations are strong. Safe. Eddie wants to burrow himself in that noise, swallow every decibel until a piece of Richie fuses into his very soul.

They shouldn't be doing this, though Eddie can't for the life of him figure out _why_. Because if this is the Thing with a capital T people become absolute fools for, Eddie wants to be part of that statistic 

They break for air after a while, continuing to cling to each other as they blush and heave. He drops his head to the side when Richie’s mouth makes its way to his throat, nibbling at the skin there sweetly. Eddie squirms and sighs, bites down on his kiss-swollen lip at the weight of Richie’s hands on his back. Then there's the barest hint of suction and his eyes fly open.

“Richie, you _can’t_ ,” he hisses, clawing at his sides. “My mom’ll kill me!”

Groaning, Richie pulls off with a pop that makes Eddie’s ears burn. He looks out of sorts, blinking at Eddie and fumbling with his glasses, lips slick and puffy and so enticing that Eddie has to dive in for one more peck.

“Fuck your mom,” Richie grouses, voice thick like syrup, clogging Eddie’s bloodsream.

“I thought you already did.”

It takes Richie a moment to think about what Eddie has said, but when it hits him he _laughs_ , so light and loud carefree. 

“Eds gets off a good one!”

He throws his head back, nearly knocking Eddie off his lap, fingers finding the hem of his shorts once more to pluck idly at a loose thread there. Eddie’s heart is unbelievably full.

Richie’s grin remains long after his laughter dies out, leaving Eddie no choice but to match it, probably with stars in his eyes. He definitely feels like a Space Cadet right now, off in his own little world, unbeholden to the laws of gravity. He could shoot off into the distance like a popped balloon if Richie wasn’t holding him tight. Judging by the dazed expression currently covering Richie’s face, he might feel the same, only it’s Eddie’s entire body weight that’s keeping him tethered. His anxieties resurface, mild but noticeable, so he scoots away until his butt is back on the ground, knees still tucked firmly against Richie’s sides, much like the position they started in. Richie cards a hand through his hair and twists his mouth, trying to decide what to say.

“Not bad, for a virgin,” is what he settles on. The joke falls flat. Eddie doesn’t mind.

“You’re a virgin too, fucknut.”

“So not bad,” Richie reiterates, his tone on the verge of questioning.

“No. Not bad.”

“Oh, thank _fuck._ I was gonna rag on Bev and the guys tomorrow for being all ‘ _it’s dark and private in the clubhouse, hope you don’t get a heart boner in front of Eddie and die_ _!_ _’_ But now I’m thinking I should thank them, maybe slip a note to the _lovely_ Mrs. Douglas while I’m at it.”

Panic shouldn’t seize Eddie after one of his biggest dreams has literally just come true, but it _does_ , tasting sour and making his heart thump like a rabbit on the run as it sinks to the pit of his gut, a failed-to-skip stone.

“Richie…” he trails regretfully. Richie pouts—although it’s not _really_ a pout, it’s just a thing his mouth does when he’s thoughtful or confused—but remains silent, attentive, waiting for Eddie to speak. “Do they, um, do they know…”

He gestures between them, unsure of how to phrase what he wants to ask. Richie seems to recognize the question before there even is one.

“They know how—how _I_ am. Bill and Mike are clueless, but the others, yeah. They know I’m crazy about you.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Richie averts his gaze. Rubs his nose.

“I guess. I didn’t _tell_ them anything, they just sort of figured it out. You know how Stan is, fucker’s like a bloodhound when something actually interests him. And Beverly’s way too nosy for her own good. She calls it her _womanly intuition_ , whatever the fuck that means. She just, like, cornered me one day and told me it was _okay_ —” His voice cracks and he clears his throat to mask it. Eddie doesn’t utter a peep. “Ben knew ‘cause, uh, _ya know._ I guess we’re romantics, or something; his words, not mine. Only, he writes shitty poems and I risk getting my ass beat by carving shit in public.”

“That was stupid,” Eddie admonishes, sounding fond and to his own ears.

“Ben thought it was sweet.”

“It was both,” Eddie concedes Richie smiles crookedly, for a brief moment. “I just… none of them know about _me_. My side of things.”

“Not even Bill?”

“Nuh-uh. _Fuck_ no. I mentioned you after we got our assignments, hoping he’d take a hint and tell me I should ask you to pise, so it wouldn’t be weird or suspicious if I asked. And then he brought up _Greta_ , and I was like—I wanted him to know but I was really glad that he didn’t. God, that makes me sound like such an asshole.”

“Newsflash, Edward: you _are_ an asshole. But it’s okay.” His dubious frown has Richie reaching out to grab his shoulders. “No, seriously. You think I _wanted_ half our friends knowing my fucking _dirty little secret?”_

 _“_ Don’t call it that,” Eddie scolds. _Don’t call_ me _that_ , he doesn’t add.

“That’s what it is, right? Little four-eyed faggot boy gets hot for dick instead of pussy.” The harsh words make Eddie flinch, reminds him of all the times Henry Bowers called him _Girly Boy_ while Belch Huggins practically barfed in his face. He’s glad those psychos fucked off when they did, long before today. “Poor chump’s in love with his best friend! It’s dirty, it’s a secret, what else am I gonna call it?”

“It’s _not_ dirty,” Eddie insists against every fiber of his being that says otherwise.

Faggot was a word Eddie heard a lot in Derry, from kids at school and grown-ups around town. _What_ _are_ _you, a faggot?_ the bullies would tease whenever someone didn’t want to do what they said. Fairy was another insult, one he often heard from Greta Keene back when she taunted him for stinky breath and penis tumors, neither of which Eddie was afflicted with. She was apparently making eyes at him these days, but those names still tumbled out of her mouth in regards to Bill and Stan and Richie, worse than when they’d been meant for him. Queer was a more polite term, he supposed, something that was passed around by anyone who wasn’t sure what else to say. Not that it sounded so nice when his mother and her Church friends gossiped about those type of people they heard stories about on the News. When she was home alone with Eddie she would talk about them being _dirty_ in a way that didn’t just mean germs but also diseases and their “unnatural” state of minds. Eddie felt that way at the very start of his realizations, when he believed he could scrub himself in the shower and cleanse his mind with weekly prayers, begging for the crossed wires inside him to be fixed. All of those attempts turned half-hearted when his thoughts surrounding Richie became all-consuming.

The way they were with each other, the way they’d always been, hadn’t ever changed, but rather steadily grew. And it was on an otherwise ordinary day that those wires _had_ been fixed, the resulting smoke having faded away to show him the facts.

Loving Richie might very well be _sick_ —might make him terminal, incurable—but it certainly isn’t _dirty._ It’s virtuous and joyful. A salve that doesn’t absolve Eddie’s worries, but soothes them nonetheless.

He says as much to Richie, in basic, less flowery terms. He’d never live it down if his favorite idiot knew the full breadth of his affections.

“So all that shit you said, is that what you think of me too?”

“ _No._ No, I’d never—”

“Then it’s not you either, Rich.”

“You mean that,” he whispers after a beat, voice wavering with shock.

“I do. But I… can’t, with anyone else.” The hands on his shoulder slip down his arms, to the crook of his elbows, then his wrists. His touch would be calming if it didn’t fill Eddie with the urge to wiggle and dance and run; not _away_ , to escape, but to burn bright and fly free. “I’m not—” _I’m not brave enough_. But he wants to be. For Richie. For himself.

“It’s okay,” Richie says. He’s been nothing but honest since Eddie’s meltdown, so he knows this must be true. “I get it.”

“You seem to get a lot of things. Way more than I thought.”

“Such is the life of an undiscovered genius.” Richie’s knuckles are sharp and hard beneath the pads of Eddie’s thumbs, stained with ink and dirt. His skin is surprisingly soft around the hard spots of tissue formed from overuse. “I won’t say anything,” he promises anew. “Bev might dog you on her own, but none of them’ll hear anything from me. I swear.”

“It’s not even _them_ , really. I know they wouldn’t say anything. I mean, they don’t care, right?”

“They don’t give a single shit, dude. Bill and Mike wouldn’t either. Hell, if you ever tell Bill he’ll probably bawl, the big baby.”

“See, yeah! So it shouldn’t be scary, but…”

“But this is _Derry_ ,” Richie finishes, spitting the name of their town with more disdain than Eddie has ever heard, which is saying something considering how much they _all_ hate this shithole. “Scary Derry. I fuckin’ hate it here. I _hate_ it. And if it weren’t for the Losers… I dunno, man. I’d run off to Chicago, maybe. It was good there, I liked it. I think you’d all like it, too. And I wasn’t alone. _We_ wouldn’t be alone.”

The reminder of Richie’s trip to the Windy City, of that surprising lack of loneliness, has Eddie thinking of Kay, Richie’s so-called Pen-Pal. He’d been jealous when those first few letters came in, he’ll admit, freaking _sue him_ —until Richie told him the truth about their tentative friendship. Now, with even bigger truths out in the open (Richie is _queer,_ Richie carved our initials on the _Kissing Bridge_ , Richie _loves_ _me_ ), Eddie is glad that Richie had someone he could potentially relate to.

“We can’t go to Chicago yet,” he retorts sensibly, refraining from launching into a rant that would surely end in unrealistic planning. “We have to graduate first.”

At that, Richie’s eyes light up like a full moon.

“Yet, huh? A couple of kisses and you’re already thinking of runnin’ off with me, huh, Kaspbrak? Yowza!”

“Shut up! You’re the one who—”

“I’m joking, Eds. Yankin’ your chain. If you don’t like it I could try yankin’ on something _else_ , if ya know what I mean.”

“Richie!” Eddie screeches.

He says the same damn thing all the time, most recently at the lunch table on Tuesday and even inside the privacy of Eddie’s brain in class, so it shouldn’t cause any sort of reaction, but of course it freaking does. Warmth spreads through Eddie’s body at a rapid rate, most of it heading south in an embarrassing manner. Instead of cracking another joke or even laughing at Eddie’s chagrin, Richie turns a spectacular shade of red. Eddie takes a discreet look at his lap to make sure his body hasn’t betrayed him. Nothing seems out of place, but it’s obvious they both suffer from overactive imaginations.

“Sorry, sorry. I guess I can’t—I shouldn’t say shit like that anymore.”

“You can’t stop being Trashmouth,” Eddie argues, because despite how irritating Richie’s comments tend to be they’re still part of who he is, fundamentally. 

“Yeah, no, totally not, but you know what I mean when I say shit like that now. Kinda takes all the fun away.”

Eddie disagrees.

Leaning in, he places a lightning quick kiss to the tip of Richie’s large nose, smirking smugly at his shy smile and the cute way he wiggles his knees back and forth like he just can’t contain himself. But it’s when he reaches for Eddie, noodle-armed with grabby hands, pulling him into his chest even as he flings himself forward to match, locking themselves into an embrace, that a million more butterflies take over his belly to make it their wonderful new sanctuary. Eddie doesn’t try to bat them away. That’s an old habit he can work on breaking.

The afternoon light fades into evening as they quietly sit. Richie’s face is tucked into Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s arms are wrapped loosely around his thin waist, simply enjoying each other like they never could before.

“I love you, Richie,” he murmurs into peachy smelling hair, the curly wisps at the top tickling his nose. One day he’ll want the whole world to know, but for now their world is small, small-minded and frightening. For now, Richie is the only one who needs to hear it. The only one who matters.

“I love you too, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” Eddie whines, reaching behind Richie’s ears to press up and down on the arms of his glasses, using the shells of his ears to flip them like a seesaw. “I hate that one that most.”

“Methinks the dude doth protest too much. Now knock it off or we’ll be saying _what’s up, chuck_ real soon.”

“Puke on me and you’re dead,” Eddie threatens, leaving the glasses behind in favor of playing spider on Richie’s nape, making him squawk and shiver.

“Ah say, ah say, cut it out, boy, or I’ll spank ya where yer feathers are thinnest!”

Richie emphasizes his voice _and_ request with a slap to Eddie’s thigh, causing him to yelp; more so at the sound than the sting.

“Foghorn Leghorn, Rich? Seriously? You’re the only person I know who still watches _Looney Tunes_ , I swear.” Eddie smiles despite himself. “At least you’re getting better,” he says without thinking, his usual surly facade having left for a vacation. He knows Richie will gloat about it later, but the way he preens under the praise is more than worth it.

“Practice makes perfect, Eddie, my love. Speaking of…”

Richie nods to the notebook Eddie had discarded what suddenly seems like eons ago, the minimalist sketch of Richie hidden within the pages, protected by two covers that are neat and hardly smudged from the fall. Eddie has ample time to finish his project before it’s due. He should save it for another day, it’s too dark now, but—

Glancing over at the hammock, where the light from outside has been replaced by yellow circles from the hardy flashlights dangling above, and taking into account how close they’d been sitting in the fabric, wrapped up in each other not too dissimilar to how they are in their current position… Eddie would say, if he had an artistic bone in his body, that the setting was too perfect to disturb. Too _r_ _omantic._ It’ll take hours, still, to see some progression and his mother will surely wail when he returns home so late in the night, hopefully not with the cops in in their yard, but Eddie doesn’t care.

He rises from Richie’s hold—wrestling around a little when Richie refuses to let go—and snatches up his notebook with the same amount of urgency he had earlier but without the desperate fear. (There _is_ a twinge that shoots through him as he recognizes that Mrs. Douglas and his classmates with eventually see the finished product, will eventually see Richie’s face through Eddie’s eyes, when all this is over. He he knows the doom that might spell if he isn’t careful, if he puts too much effort into the strokes the way Bill does in his stories and sketches, and Ben with in poems, and Richie in his _etchings_ _._ But then it’s gone in a flash, kicked away to dwell on when it’s necessary, similar to the way Richie cleans his room: by kicking comics and wrappers and socks beneath the bed and pretending his handiwork could pass an inspection.)

Eddie shakes his head, scattering those thoughts, and helps Richie stand up on the beanpole legs he has yet to master. He leads Richie to the hammock by the wrist, climbing in before he’s fully settled, and when Eddie stares for ten minutes straight without moving his pencil an inch Richie knows he doesn’t need to question it. Doesn’t need to worry.

Neither of them do.

* * *

****[Thursday]** **

Eddie hates art.

His eyes are strained from the unnecessary hours he sunk into drawing Richie, never quite ready to walk away from the tentatively blooming relationship that had sprouted so unexpectedly, and his wrist aches. Richie had wondered, loudly and in the center of the hallway, if it was because Eddie had been _tickling his pickle_ all night, throwing the Losers off any trails they might have caught scent of if they found out just how long the two stayed out last night and what exactly they’d been doing. (Eddie’s lucky he even got to come to school today, what with how furious Sonia had been when he’d crept through the front door sometime after midnight. She must’ve been taking all the warning calls about his attendance more seriously than he’d thought.)

Anyway, Eddie is exhausted and sore and art class _sucks_ because he has to pretend he left his project at home so Bill doesn’t catch sight of the near-finished product yet, meaning he has to act like he’s doing something each time Mrs. Douglas passes by. He occupies himself with doodling the field of daisies that surrounds the train tracks he likes to visits, as well as the few tall sunflowers that border the abandoned well-house on Neibolt Street, even managing to get a couple games of Tic-Tac-Toe in with Bill before the bell rings. He would’ve fallen asleep otherwise.

“Everything ok-kay?” Bill checks as they trek through the packed halls on their way to their lockers.

“Sure. Why?”

“You were going to start your p-portrait yesterday, right?”

“Oh.” He’s not sweating, he has no reason to. His throat _is_ sort of parched. “Yeah, I did.”

They separate, as usual, to put their books away before they head over to the cafeteria. His mom hadn’t packed him a lunch and he’d been too sluggish getting ready on three hours of sleep to do it himself. The change in his pocket will be put to good use.

“Did you actually leave your notebook at home?” Bill asks as soon as they meet back up. “Or did you fight with Richie so much you d-di-didn’t get any work done?”

Eddie chuckles.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad. Richie knows I’d kill him if he made me fail, so I got a pretty good start. We’re gonna need the clubhouse a few more times before I’m done, though.”

He gives his friend a mild side-eye, chewing on the inside of his lip as Bill nods in understanding. If he were being honest he’d say that he was practically done, that he’d need one more session _max_ _;_ but he’d really just like to be alone with Richie some more, without their friends questioning why they want to hang out by themselves, and this assignment is the perfect excuse. Maybe art class is good for something, after all.

Eddie doesn’t like lying to Bill. However, he _does_ like kissing Richie, and since they decided that neither of them are ready or willing to talk about… whatever they are to anyone yet, what else can they do? The Losers will understand. Eddie really believes that they will.

“Hey, that’s fine. But n-n-not tonight, okay? I talked to Mikey and he s-said he found a baby duck on the Kenduskeag Trail. He thinks it imprinted on him, so he wanted to show us. I thought we could meet at the farm after school.”

“I’m allergic to feathers,” is Eddie’s instinctive reply, although he’s pretty sure he isn’t.

Bill smiles wryly, nudging their elbows together.

“You’ll be fine, Eds. Pr-promise.”

They get in line together, quickly grabbing their trays and making a beeline for their usual table. Richie fidgets with his glasses when Eddie approaches his designated spot, saved between him and Stan as always. His fingers leaves smudges in their wake, eyes gleaming while Eddie plops down. He feigns a gasp when their trays knock atop speckled surface.

“You’re eating the slop? Woah! Sorry, dude. I must’ve tired your mom out so bad last night she forgot to pack your ham and cheese.”

“Ha-ha, asshole,” he gripes, rolling his eyes and squaring his shoulders. All the things Richie said about himself are still too fresh in Eddie’s mind for him to lean into their usual heated banter. He tries to act normal. Their friendship can’t change _too_ much. “Eat your carrots, they might save the little bit of sight you have left.”

Stan snorts.

“You know, Richie, maybe you should tire _yourself_ out so we can eat in peace for once,” he quips, grinning triumphantly. Bev laughs and Richie complains about _trashing the Trashmouth_ and Ben shoots Eddie a soft little smile. For what, he’s not sure, but he returns it with wholeheartedly.

“Wait, you got _strawberry?_ ” Eddie blurts once he realizes the carton of milk on Richie’s tray isn’t the standard white. There weren’t any choices left when he and Bill passed through.

“Yep. You want?” Richie offers through a mouthful of meatloaf. Eddie can’t even scold him, he’s so pathetically touched.

“Really?”

“Wasn’t paying attention when I grabbed it,” he claims. Considering he’s got a cup of water next to the unopened beverage, Eddie doesn’t buy it. Like, he won’t _assume_ Richie left his usual chocolate milk behind in order to grab Eddie his favorite _,_ but Jesus, that seems to be exactly what he did. “This shit tastes like medicine to me. Have at it, Doctor K.”

Eddie’s trimmed nails graze Richie’s knuckles on the pass, the brief touch filling his chest with pure, heady happiness. Richie licks salt off his lips and Eddie has a vivid thought of doing that himself, instead. His breath hitches.

Turning to stare down at his tray, Eddie carefully tears at the top of his carton with surprisingly steady hands, brows furrowing as his shin is lightly kicked with the toe of a hard shoe. It’s Beverly, he notes after glancing up, wearing a secret smile behind the fist she rests her head on, the edges curling crooked like the one brow she’s got raised. Bill finishes telling them about his conversation with Mike and their plans to meet his new pet duck, earning agreeable hums from the rest of the Losers, including Bev, just before just before she winks. She looks away after that, letting Eddie stew in the heat of _knowing_.

 _Be brave_ , he thinks, swallowing his nerves.

Bill and Ben begin discussing their history homework around Beverly’s shoulders, with Stan and Richie interjecting their two-cents in every so often. Bev’s lighter goes _clink, clink, clink_ as he toys with the lid, chewing on her lunch and listening to everything going on around her. Eddie asks her about Gym class, since she has it first, and she mentions that track is scheduled for today, something that genuinely excites him.

While all this is going on, Eddie snakes his right hand beneath the table to find Richie’s in the covered space between them, his pinky finger stretching blindly until it hits home. Richie’s body gives a little jerk but he takes the bait without question, without looking, and hooks their fingers together in a loose hold, the way one would for a promise. Perhaps it is, in a sense; a promise that they get to have this, no matter the circumstances, secret or not.

Only one thing is for certain, in the end, and it’s that Eddie Kaspbrak hates art class but he loves Richie Tozier _more._ And though both of those things are hell on his nerves, neither seem so daunting now.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so... I should be editing the final chapter of my other/main fic, but clearly I've put that off in favor of finishing this one: a story idea that I had like a month or two ago that somehow got pushed to the forefront, getting worked on before all my other WIPs. Because I'm trash and so is this fic!
> 
> ANYWAY. In a world where the Losers get to go to high school together, Bowers and his gang graduated and fucked off, and Pennywise doesn’t exist… maybe Reddie’s love story could’ve gotten a head start! And also not ended tragically. -_- Well, that’s my excuse for this indulgent ooc bs and I’m sticking to it. (Sorry for any mistakes I didn't manage to catch.)
> 
> With all that aside, I really did spend a long time writing this thing and while it's kind of silly and cheesy it's also just pure fun fluff, which I'm all about. (Richie and Eddie deserve love and happiness!!) I couldn't get the idea out of my head so I decided to give it a shot. I really hope you could get some enjoyment out of reading. If you did, please let me know! ❤ I'd really appreciate it the feedback and motivation.
> 
> {Side notes: 1. The Losers are supposed to be 16 and in 11th grade. If I contradicted that somewhere in the fic, I apologize. I changed my mind about some things while I was like halfway through. 2. I was going to use a random name for Richie's Pen-Pal mention (like the random girl from AV Club) since it was such a small thing, but I thought it'd be fun to throw Kay's name into the mix because I had already added in a few nods to the book by that point, so why not! Basically they met in Chicago, their sexualities somehow got revealed (maybe Kay has a secret girlfriend and Richie was probably whining over how much he missed his Best Pal Eddie, IDK) and they became friends. That's all. 3. Exsqueeze Me is from Wayne's World and thinking about Richie watching/loving that movie makes me happy.}


End file.
